Afterglow
by Diocletian
Summary: ONE-SHOT. After the final battle, all was quiet in the devastated area north of Hogsmeade and the rain began to fall.


_A/N: An odd kind of fic-let that just came to me one day. It's a one-shot, kind of angsty (I guess), but more thoughtful than anything else. It's an iffy PG-13,kind of graphic, but in a vague way.Takes place right after the final battle. You can decide how it ultimately ends for yourself._

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_**Afterglow** _

_**By Diocletian** _

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All was quiet in the devastated area north of Hogsmeade when the rain finally began to fall. The wireless had been predicting it all day, but it had only started now as the sun began to set. The large drops pattered down quickly to the ground, flattening any remaining grass that had been spared by the heat of battle and putting out small fires as it fell. Near a straggly stand of trees, emerald eyes dazedly peered up at the heavy gray clouds through a cheap pair of broken glasses. As water droplets formed on the round lenses, ran down the edge, and then formed again, Harry Potter absently noted that if he lived more than another few minutes, he should try to find a new pair. These ones, faithful though they had always been, had finally outlived their use.

_'Or maybe I'll try out contact lenses,'_ he thought, momentarily allowing his exhausted eyes to close. _'I mean, what's left to lose?'_

He could vaguely sense the freshly formed mud as it seeped steadily into his already blood-soaked clothing, and he wished despondently he could still feel it properly, even though he knew how dreadful and dirty and wet it would be. As it was, his entire body was cold and numb, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to move. He didn't blame it, though.

Harry opened his eyes again. He couldn't even lift his head up from out of the mud anymore, but he quickly decided that this was more of a blessing than anything else. All he could see when he lifted his head was the crowded destruction of their impromptu battlefield. Other witches and wizards like himself, lying dead or dying on the wet ground, like rag dolls, and those who scurried frantically amongst the broken bodies, doing all they could to help those who could still be helped.

Then his eyes would always, inevitably, be drawn back to himself. Back to where the bone from his broken leg had torn through the ligaments and muscles in his thigh, finally erupting out through the skin, where it's harsh whiteness glinted at him from against the darkbackground of his torn and bloody black uniform pants, as though to taunt him with an undeniable proof to his weakness.

His gaze would be drawn back to where the gaping wound Lucius Malfoy's sword had left in his abdomen continued to bleed. The seemingly endless river of blood formed a growing pool around his immobile body as it mixed with the rain and dirt. Harry couldn't see it, or feel it any more, but he knew it was there, staining his clothing, draining his life away. Lying back like this, he noticed, on the very edge of sight, Harry could still see Malfoy's sword. It was lying at the foot of the nearest tree where it had been carelessly dropped when its owner had fled the scene.

As his vision began to blur and darken, colours running together and losing their meaning, Harry wondered idly if he had really won, once and for all, or if this was just another of Voldemort's schemes. It didn't seem possible, after the battle that had just been fought, that another could ever take place that would come even fractionally close to matching the intensity and displaying the courage that had already been put forth.

_'And besides,'_ Harry realized haltingly, _'the prophecy said that one of us was going to die, killed by the other. If Lucius Malfoy has just killed me, that could only mean that Voldemort is not longer here to do it. I guess that means it must be over.'_

Funny, it didn't feel as though he had just won. It was the battle he had practically been born to fight; victory was his. And yet Harry felt nothing. Perhaps this was what happened to everyone just before they died. They just stopped feeling. Harry hazily tried to remember back to the end of his second year, when he had received a Basilisk fang in the arm. He had thought he was going to die then, too. Strange that he suddenly couldn't remember any details from that battle.

Harry closed his eyes again. There was no longer any point in having them open. His brain was no longer properly processing the distorted images his eyes were presenting to it. Even the faint sounds he could hear, growing gradually louder, were no longer making sense. Just a fog of different tones and volumes. His thoughts flitted to Ron and Hermione, and the other members of the DA. He hoped they were faring better than he was. They were his responsibility, really, and they had followed _him_ out into this battle. He would feel terrible if he found out later that any of them had been hurt.

As he felt himself slipping out of the realm of consciousness, Harry tried not to think too much about the fact that there might not _be_ a later for him, or for many of the other people who lay scattered near him. _'Broken rag dolls,'_ he thought again briefly, unable to stop himself, before forcing it out of his mind. Thoughts like that weren't going to help him now. He just concentrated on the feeling of his chest rising and falling with each breath he took, not thinking about the pain or counting seconds between each inhalation.

'_We finally did it, though,'_ he realized faintly after a while. He managed a small smile._ 'Think of that.'

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End file.
